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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240588">The Things We Do In The Dark</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro'>claro</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Cheating, M/M, Suicide Attempt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:07:29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,061</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25240588</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/claro/pseuds/claro</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Overwhelmed by his feelings Mycroft does something unforgivable that costs him his marriage and almost Greg's life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>94</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>'What?' Gregory blinked in confusion, his mouth open as he tried to comprehend what Mycroft had just told him, 'You did what?'</p>
<p>'I'm sorry, Gregory.'</p>
<p>'You....when?' Gregory's eyes were bright with tears as the weight of Mycroft's confession started to sink in, 'When?'</p>
<p>'Last night.' Mycroft clenched his hand to stop it shaking.</p>
<p>''Last night?' Gregory looked as if he were about to be sick, 'You came straight from someone else's bed to confess? And what? I'm supposed to be grateful that you told me yourself instead of letting me find out by accident? Christ...I....how many times? Hmm? Have you been laughing at me all these years?'</p>
<p>'No-'</p>
<p>'How many times? How many people?'</p>
<p>'Once. Just once.'</p>
<p>Mycroft had expected shouting. Expected guilt and pain. Expected a punch in the face. But he hadn't expected Gregory Lestrade to cry. The policeman stood across the kitchen from him, tears falling down his face, staring at Mycroft as if he'd never seen him before. And before Mycroft could say anything else, a change came over Gregory. He wiped his hand across his cheeks and shook his head before turning away, leaving Mycroft standing alone in the kitchen. A moment later the front door slammed.</p>
<p>And that was how Mycroft Holmes broke the heart of the only person who had ever truly loved him.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Greg didn’t know where he was heading, he walked with no direction, just needing to move, to put as much space between him and Mycroft as possible, allowing the anger to propel him for now, terrified of that coming moment when the grief would take over, that moment when he’d have to confront the fact that, once again, he wasn’t enough for someone.</p>
<p>He’d risked everything for Mycroft. Every relationship he had in the world he put on the line, personal, professional, all of it. He’d risked the respect of his colleagues, the love of his parents when at almost fifty he’d finally come out . For Mycroft.</p>
<p>After Caroline he never thought he’d find someone else. But there was Mycroft. He was always bloody there, lurking in dark places, the spectre at the feast, issuing orders and vague threats. And then one day during a shouting match about Sherlock, Mycroft Holmes pushed Greg against the wall of his office and kissed him.</p>
<p>Greg hadn’t kissed another man since he was 20 and he’d forgotten how it felt. He’d forgotten what it was like to hold broad shoulders and narrow hips, the earthy scent of another male body, the feel of an erection pressing against him.</p>
<p>And a week later he discovered how it felt to have those endless legs wrapped around him, and how Mycroft’s skin tasted.</p>
<p>Someone else discovered those things last night. Mycroft decided that Greg wasn’t enough and he went to someone else’s bed. He’d come to Greg straight from another man’s bed, unshowered, still smelling of him, and he stood in the kitchen of their home and confessed to Greg what he’d done.</p>
<p>‘Why?’ Greg shouted, not caring about the stares that he received from passers by. He was on Westminster Bridge now, the Houses of Parliament ahead, his feet subconsciously taking him on one of his and Mycroft’s favourite evening walks. He looked up at the building now. Mycroft would be there later. He wouldn’t miss work, not even for the end of his marriage. Was that where he met…<em>him?</em></p>
<p>Greg deliberately hadn’t asked who Mycroft slept with. Caroline had delighted in revealing her conquests at the end. The list was impressive, but painful to hear. She’d worked her way though quite a lot of Greg’s friends by the end. So he didn’t just lose a wife, he lost half of his social network too. It had taken a lot to trust Mycroft, and when Greg decided to trust him he put every single part of himself into it.</p>
<p>His wedding ring cut a clean arc over the river, any sound it would have made as it hit the surface was drowned out by the noise of traffic. Greg watched it go as the tears started again, anger giving way to grief as he was overwhelmed by the realisation that whatever future he could see for himself, it was going to be one without Mycroft Holmes.</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>THREE MONTHS LATER</p><p> </p><p>Gregory never came home from that walk. He'd ended up at Baker Street where he slept on Sherlock's sofa until he was able to find a flat he could afford alone. He'd blocked Mycroft's number and sent his house keys back with Dr Watson when the man arrived to collect Gregory's clothes for him.</p><p>'Can't face me?' Mycroft asked quietly.</p><p>'Can you blame him?' John snapped, but with less anger than usual, taking pity on the wreck of a man standing alone in the centre of the room, not looking like belonged there.</p><p>'Will you...please....tell him I'm sorry.'</p><p>John Watson just shook his head, 'He doesn't care that you're sorry, Mycroft.'</p><p>The following day the divorce petition arrived in the post.</p><p>Mycroft hadn't seen Gregory since the morning he confessed what he'd done. He couldn't bring himself to even watch him on CCTV, instead he had his staff keep tabs on him, only updating him where necessary. Which is why Anthea bursting into his office without knocking was so unheard of.</p><p>'It's the detective inspector,' she said without preamble.</p><p>'What about him?'</p><p>'He booked into a suite at the Connacht twenty minutes ago in his best suit with no hand luggage.'</p><p>The chill that went through Mycroft was a familiar one.</p><p>'Get me a car! NOW!'</p><p>It took less than ten minutes after running every light on the way, but it was ten minutes too long. Mycroft was out the door before the car had even stopped. He ran past the doorman, already yelling towards reception.</p><p>'Lestrade - which room?'</p><p>A member of staff ran after him up the stairs, giving instructions. But Mycroft already knew where he was going. It was the same room he'd stayed in <em>that</em> night.</p><p>'Call an ambulance.'</p><p>'Sir?'</p><p>'Do it!'</p><p>Mycroft didn't bother to knock, he just burst through the door and took a split second to register what he saw.</p><p>Gregory's jack hung on the back of a chair, his shoes, newly polished were at the side of the bed. On the beside table was Gregory's warrant card, wallet and watch, neatly lined up next to the empty bottle of scotch and the foil packets that had, until recently, contained an assortment of painkillers and sleeping tablets. Gregory had his back to the door and at first glance Mycroft thought he wasn't alone, he looked like he was wrapped around someone, but he was alone. He'd bundled the quilt beneath him and was curled around it like he was holding someone. Mycroft wondered brieflyif he even knew that he did that. Mycroft had witnessed it on those nights when he came home from a business trip early and found his husband like that, face buried in Mycroft's pillow, or sometimes, when it had been a long trip, he'd dig out one of Mycroft's shirts and hold it at night.</p><p>Mycroft was at Gregory's side in an instant, dragging the quilt away and pulling Gregory towards him.</p><p>'There's an ambulance on it's way,' the staff member reappeared, 'Is he alright?'</p><p>'We need to make him vomit.' Mycroft was shrugging out of his suit jacket as he spoke.</p><p>'I'll get something for the -'</p><p>'I'll pay for the fucking carpet!' Mycroft shouted, 'Help me hold him!'</p><p>At Mycroft's shout Gregory's eyes fluttered open and a small smile, almost sad, briefly lit up his face.</p><p>'I hoped I'd see you again.'</p><p>'Gregory, there's an ambulance on it's way. But I need you to vomit for me, can you do that?'</p><p>Gregory should his head slowly, his eyes closing again, 'Let me go.'</p><p>'No!' Mycroft  prized open Gregory's mouth, steeling himself for what was about to come, and thrust his fingers into Gregory's mouth. Almost immediately the policeman began to gag and a second later was sick down Mycroft's trouser leg and onto the carpet. And then the room was full of other people, a stretcher, the green uniform of paramamedics, and Gregory was being loaded into an ambulance.</p><p>'Do you know him?' One asked.</p><p>'He's my husband. Where are you taking him?'</p><p>'Barts.'</p><p>Mycroft nodded, 'Can I come or should I follow behind?'</p><p>The man who had spoken to him looked briefly sympathetic, 'Best if you follow. Do you know what he took?'</p><p>Mycroft thrust the pill packets at him, 'These.'</p><p>'Do you know how many?'</p><p>Mycroft shook his head. Then the doors were closing and the siren was wailing and Mycroft was alone beside the fountain, his hands shaking as he signaled for his driver.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was four hours before Mycroft was allowed in to see Gregory, and in that time he discovered what his husband had been doing before he checked into the hotel. Greg had quit his job and gave up the lease on his flat. He’d donated all of his clothes to a homeless charity and his furniture to a women’s refuge before emptying his bank accounts. He’d left his flat that morning owning nothing except the suit he walked out in.</p><p>‘Mr Holmes?’ the doctor who approached him looked so serious that for a split second Mycroft thought the worst had happened, ‘You can see Gregory now.’</p><p>‘Is he…?’</p><p>‘I’ll be honest, he’s in a bad way. But before I let you in I need to warn you that it looks worse than it is. He’s stable, but we’ll need to do more tests over the coming days to work out exactly how much damage has been done, we’ll review his medications but I’d like to have a pacemaker fitted as soon as possible.’</p><p>‘What do you mean?’</p><p>‘His heart is working too hard and seemed to have taken most of the damage, of course with a preexisiting condition that he’s not been getting treatment for it was only a matter of time.’</p><p>‘I don’t understand. What condition?’</p><p>The doctor looked sympathetic, ‘Your husband has arrythmia, did you not know?’</p><p>Mycroft shook his head in silence.</p><p>‘He might not have known himself. Basically your husband’s heart if beating at around twice the speed it should. We’ve put him on a course of beta blockers but his hearts so damaged that they are a short term solution. If he rejects the pacemaker then we’re looking at a transplant within the next two years. Frankly the fact that he hasn’t had a heart attack before now is something of a miracle.’</p><p>‘What do you mean ‘before now’?’</p><p>‘Mr Holmes, your husband had a heart attack in the ambulance on his way here.’</p><p>Mycroft suddenly felt too hot and too cold at the same time.</p><p>‘He’s massively dehydrated, his stomach contents were mostly liquid, alcohol. And it doesn’t seem like he’s eaten for several days so his blood sugar level is pretty much non existent. We have him on an IV to rehydrate him and get some food into him.’</p><p>‘A feeding tube?’</p><p>The doctor shook his head, ‘No. Right now his stomach can’t handle it and we don’t want to risk him vomiting in his sleep, so no tube. Everything has to go in via his canula.’</p><p>Mycroft nodded, ‘I understand.’</p><p>At the slightly sceptical look on the doctor’s face Mycroft felt the need to elaborate.</p><p>‘My brother is a drug addict. This is not the first time I’ve visited this ward.’</p><p>A nod of understanding followed and then the doctor took a deep breath, ‘Gregory is going to be in a lot of pain when he wakes up, and we’re fighting to keep his temperature down. Unfortunately we can’t give him any painkillers until everything else is out of his system. The most we can do is a mild sedative to try and help him sleep through the worst of it.’</p><p>‘You mean the come down?’</p><p>Another nod.</p><p>‘From now on no drinking, smoking either. Does he take a lot of exercise?’</p><p>‘He…um, he plays football.’</p><p>‘Not any more he doesn’t. Mild exercise, lots of walks, that kind of thing.And, um, sex is fine, but nothing too acrobatic.’</p><p>No chance of that, Mycroft thought to himself, but he didn’t say it aloud.</p><p>‘He’ll need a complete overhaul of his diet too. But I’m gonna be honest with you, it could be a long time before he gets out of here. This is his third suicide attempt and he’s on enough antidepressants and anxiety medication to knock out a horse. I’m waiting on the report from his therapist, but right now sectioning him is looking like the only way to keep him from harming himself.</p><p>Mycroft nodded, already resolving that he wouldn’t let that happen.</p><p>‘May I see him now?’</p><p>The doctor nodded and let him towards the bay where Gregory was sleeping.</p><p>‘Can he be moved somewhere more private?’</p><p>‘Afraid not. We prefer to keep patients where we can see them at all times.’</p><p>Mycroft knew that, of course, he’d been through it with Sherlock more than once, but seeing Gregory laying there, exposed and vulnerable was almost more than he could bear. He was surrounded by machines, Mycroft knew what they did of course, he’d had them explained to him in the past, they measured everything from his heart rate to his oxygen levels. What Mycroft hadn’t expected was the oxygen mask.</p><p>‘Is that necessary?’</p><p>‘He’s struggling to breathe in deeply enough, it’s just a precaution, we’re trying to make things as easy as possible for his body right now.’</p><p>The policeman was stripped down to a thin hospital robe, the slight bulk of an adult nappy just visible under the single sheet that covered his legs.</p><p>‘Why has he pants and a catheter?’</p><p>‘Easiest way to collect urine samples right now. I’ll give you some time now.’ And before Mycroft could say anything else, the doctor was gone. Then and only then did Mycroft crumble. He dropped into the seat at Gregory’s side and reached for his hand, which felt far too warm in Mycroft’s own pale one.</p><p>‘I won’t ever let you go,’ he whispered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The first time Greg Lestrade had tried to kill himself he was in his late teens. He’s known, always known, that he wasn’t like his friends. He talked and leered at girls, but he didn’t feel any desire to do anything about it. At first, when it was noticed by his parents, and then his teachers, the comments were all the same – not everyone develops at the same rate, it can take time. The sentiment was there, that ‘don’t worry’ smile of reassurance, but every time someone said that to him, there eyes flashed something different, a fear he didn’t fully understand until later.</p><p>He found himself staring at boys at school, on the street, on TV. The girls came and went in a blur and he barely noticed them. He didn’t work out what that meant until later, although he got the feeling that the adults in his life knew, but no one was telling him. All he got were the constant reassurances that it would take time and he’d know when he met the right girl.</p><p>And then the 80’s happened and suddenly there were people on the news, on the streets, in clubs that seemed to understand and Greg realised what had been wrong with him all his life. There was even a word for it. A word said in hushed tones or spat out in disgust.</p><p>Gay.</p><p>Greg Lestrade was gay.</p><p>And he didn’t want to be.</p><p>He saw how people him were treated, vilified. He saw the protest marches and the news stories and the illness and the violence against them. And he didn’t want that to be his life. He didn’t want to be persecuted, spat at in the street, beaten up, killed. All he saw ahead of him was a life of suffering and trying to accept who he was while suffering the pitying glances of those people who worked it out. Would he ever be able to get a job or would he become one of those sad clichés played for laughs in every sitcom and film he’d ever seen. Those effeminate men that were the but of jokes but who no one would ever utter the descriptor for? How was he, roughly spoken, chain smoking, ripped jeans wearing, motor bike riding, punk Greg Lestrade like those men on TV in their bespoke suits with their handkerchiefs and high pitched voices.</p><p>He didn’t feel like he belonged in either world. So he decided to take himself out of both and tried to hang himself in his wardrobe.</p><p>He spent six weeks in a secure unit after that, getting used to a raft of medication from antidepressants to something he was told was to help anxiety but he later found out was to lower libido. His parents insisting it was to help him get better. But later he came to realise that there was a different term for it. Conversion therapy.</p><p>‘I don’t want to be gay,’ Greg had whispered a month into his stay during a session with the psychiatrist and the pastor they brought in to ‘assist’.</p><p>‘Then you can choose not to be.’</p><p>They made it sound so simple. But in reality it was the most dangerous thing anyone had ever said to him.</p><p>#</p><p>Greg married the first woman who showed any real interest in him. He was twenty five and it seemed that every one around him approved. Or perhaps they were just relieved. His parents posed for photos at the wedding with him and Caroline and looking over them years later, really studying them, he saw that his parents smiles didn’t reach their eyes. They didn’t seem to care for their son’s happiness, just that he was finally making a decent show of being ‘normal’.</p><p>At least that was it seemed when he looked at them years later when he was trapped in a loveless and sexless marriage to a woman who preferred anyone else’s bed to his.</p><p>He never confided in Caroline. About anything. Somehow he knew that she would eventually use it against him. She was beautiful, in that generic way that all women seemed to be to Greg, and she was smart and could be funny and good company. But she was also cold and distant, increasingly so over time as they grew further and further apart.</p><p>Eventually they gave up the pretence of a marriage altogether and Greg slept in the spare room all the time, ignoring the smell of other men’s cologne in the flat and instead throwing himself into his work. Right up until the day they divorced. Greg had arrived home to find Caroline had packed up his things. She was kicking him out. She’d met someone, she said. Greg knew for a fact it had been a lot of someone’s, but he didn’t have the strength for an argument about it.</p><p>He found a flatshare he could just about afford, even though it meant living with four students. Still, he rarely spent time there, only going back to sleep, and even then he preferred to work a double shift than do that. Work was going badly. He was in his forties and his career had stalled. He didn’t have the energy or the stomach to keep working in Vice. He was too old, to obvious to go undercover any more, his superior was younger than him and showed no signs of wanting to move on so promotion wasn’t going to happen anytime soon.</p><p>So there he was, divorced and washed up at 42. No prospects. No partner. He couldn’t even watch telly without it being a battle for the remote with one of his housemates. He existed entirely in one bedroom and at one desk in the office, surrounded by bright young things secure in their brilliance.</p><p>And where was he? He’d spent most of his life denying who he was and it was too late now. Oh yes,now it was acceptable. Now there were clubs and dating websites for people like him. But the thought of putting himself out there now, becoming that sad old cliché hanging out at the edges of clubs, shot sidewards glances by twenty year old men who thought he was an old perve who should be at home with his Horlicks instead of leering at them.</p><p>He couldn’t live that life.</p><p>And he didn’t want to live this one anymore either.</p><p>It was the lads from the flat downstairs who found him when the bloodstained bath water overflowed and started to drip through their light fixture.</p><p>#</p><p>Several weeks later he returned to work prescribed even more medication and mandated counselling. Most of the team thinking he’d had a family emergency, only his immediate manager knowing the truth and keeping it out of Greg’s HR files, for which Greg would always be grateful.</p><p>Work went back to normal. He found a new flat, his old flatmates not exactly saying it aloud, but it was clear they didn’t really want him to carry on living there. His life went back to late nights at the office, a diet of rubbish takeaway and drinking too heavily.</p><p>And then several things happened all at once.</p><p>He got a promotion to Detective Inspector and a transfer to serious crimes, where they had a lot of murders and a particularly annoying consultant that seemed to take a liking to Greg, perhaps because Greg was the only one who didn’t call him names or treat him like he was a freak.</p><p>And then Greg was kidnapped.</p><p>He was about to get into his car after work and then he woke up in a warehouse somewhere on the river.</p><p>‘Good evening, Detective Inspector.’ The voice was the sexiest thing he had ever head, smooth and confident with just a slight note to it that made it clear the speaker was smirking.</p><p>‘Fuck off!’ Greg growled in response, rubbing his eyes and trying to focus.</p><p>When he did, he almost wished he hadn’t. The man addressing him was indeed smirking. He was tall and thin, wearing a bespoke three piece suit that even Greg’s uneducated eye could tell cost more than Greg made in a month. He had red hair, already receeding rapidly, high cheekbones and thin lips, twisted into a slight smile. His eyes were storm coloured and dancing with amusement.</p><p>He had a pocketwatch, a fucking real lifepocket watch. And was leaning on a black umbrella, one foot kicked behind the other. He should have looked absolutely ridiculous.</p><p>His name was Mycroft Holmes.</p><p>And he was the most gorgeous man Greg had ever laid eyes on.</p><p>It wasn’t his looks, although he was a handsome man, it the way he carried himself. The confidence. The power. It was like he was aware of every part of himself. He moved like a dancer, in absolute control of his body. He was, Greg could tell, possibly the most dangerous man Greg would ever meet.</p><p>Greg hated him on sight.</p><p>Three weeks later that man shoved Greg hard against his office wall and kissed him.</p><p>Greg’s entire world suddenly bloomed into colour as he kissed the man back. They broke apart eventually, panting for breath and still clinging to each other, their foreheads touching. And everything in Greg’s miserable life seemed changed.</p><p>‘Finally,’ he whispered.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>No one could ever say that Mycroft Holmes was not efficient. In less than twenty minutes he’d arranged for one of his assistants to purchase and bring suitable clothing for Gregory for his hospital stay so he wouldn’t be subjected to another of those hideous floral gown. Gregory had literally noting except the suit he’d been wearing, but Mycroft had been specific, right down to the one band flip flops that Gregory liked to wear instead of slippers. He’d informed Gregory’s mother and arranged a flight and hotel for her – he had offered her a room at his home, but as usually Eloise Lestrade declined. She’d made a lot of effort over the years to be happy and accepting of her son and his choices, but, Mycroft knew, there would always be a part of her that was repelled by the idea of her son married to another man. She would acknowledge Mycroft, and was polite to him, but staying under the same roof as him and her son was a step that she wasn’t prepared to take because it would be admitting something she couldn’t bring herself to.<br/>He’d chosen to call Dr Watson rather than Sherlock, not wanting to deal with his younger brother’s dramatics. There would be a time for that later. And then he’d placed several calls to people who owed him favours, including the Deputy Commissioner of Scotland Yard.<br/>Finally he called his own mother. The call was short and painful and he was aware that he was keeping a lot from her.<br/>When they were done, he sat back down in the uncomfortable red chair beside Gregory’s bedside.<br/>#<br/>The vomiting started around the same time as the cold sweats. The nurses took Gregory off the ventilator and rolled him onto his side into the recovery position.<br/>‘Is that strictly protocol?<br/>‘It’s incase he’s sick in his sleep again, so he doesn’t choke on it,’ a young nurse in pink scrubs and blond hair haphazardly dragged up into a scrunchie said as she took Gregory’s temperature via his ear.<br/>She filled in the numbers on Gregory’s chart.<br/>‘Unfortunately,’ she said , not looking up, her biro scribbling furiously, ‘A lot of the reason for the cold sweats is because of lack of oxygen, but when he’s wearing the mask-‘<br/>‘And he vomits inside it, yes,’ Mycroft nodded, his eyes shut, ‘I know.’<br/>‘It can also be anxiety,’ the young nurse said as she flicked through Gregory’s chart, ‘I see he’s on sertraline for that,’ she read on, ‘I see Dr Lowe is advising a revision of his dosage. Oh!’<br/>‘What?’<br/>‘’Um…well it’s just…most patients are on 100mg, some of the extreme cases are on 150, but Gregory is already on 200mg.’<br/>‘What does that mean?’<br/>‘It means there isn’t really anywhere we can go from here.’ She paused, uncomfortable, ‘We can try a combination of medication but there’s no guarantee.’<br/>‘What does he need right now?’<br/>‘Umm….more paracetamol, I’m  going to advise against Circaden for now, especially unregulated.<br/>Mycroft nodded and watched her leave- her footsteps faster than the other nurses. He tightened his grip on Gregory’s hand.<br/>‘Don’t leave me,’ he whispered ‘Please don’t’ leave me!.’</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Mycroft explains. Well, he tries to</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft was coming back from the vending machine, the slightly grey looking tea already going cold, when he heard the alarms going off. Without a second’s doubt he knew exactly who’s bed the doctors were running to.</p><p>He reached Gregory’s beside just as the curtains were drawn. He pushed his way through regardless to find three nurses and a doctor holding Gregory down. There was blood splashed across the sheets.</p><p>‘What happened?’</p><p>‘It’s okay,’ one of the nurses said, ‘He just panicked a bit when he woke up and pulled his canula out. We’ll get him cleaned up just as soon as he calms down.’</p><p>And it was then that Gregory’s eyes found Mycroft and instantly the policeman stilled, sinking back onto the bed, those deep brown eyes lined and sad. Neither he nor Mycroft said anything as Gregory’s arm was cleaned, she sheets changed and new canula inserted. Only when the staff left did either of them speak.</p><p>‘I am so sorry,’ Mycroft whispered.</p><p>‘You should have let me go,’ Gregory’s voice was rough and he was clearly finding it difficult to speak.</p><p>‘I couldn’t,’ Mycroft sat down in the chair by the bed. He wanted to take Gregory’s hand but he didn’t.</p><p>‘How…how many times?’ Gregory stared up at the ceiling as if she couldn’t bear to look at Mycroft for another second.</p><p>‘Once. Just once.’ Once too many. But neither of them needed to say that.</p><p>‘Why?’</p><p>And that was something Mycroft had been struggling to put into words since the morning he confessed.</p><p>‘Because….I’m terrified of you.’</p><p>Whatever reason Gregory had been expecting, that clearly wasn’t it. He turned to look at Mycroft again, his face crumpling.</p><p>‘I’ve never done….I never….how can you say that?’</p><p>‘Because it’s true. I have never cared for someone like I care for you. I’ve never had someone make me feel the way I do about you. You have no idea the control you have over me or the things I would do for you.’</p><p>‘Shame keeping your dick in your pants wasn’t one of them.’ Gregory closed his eyes, his voice full of bitterness.</p><p>‘I had never loved anyone before. Never even uttered the words. I didn’t….I could never envision anyone loving me. I could never imagine someone having that hold over me. And then you…you made it seem to easy. It was so easy to fall in love with you. And It terrified me.’</p><p>Gregory scoffed at this but Mycroft kept talking.</p><p>‘You have no idea of the damage that you could do to me. How easily you could destroy me. How…how I would stand there and let you.’ At this Mycroft did take Gregory’s hand, but the policeman didn’t look at him, ‘Every day I sank further and further into you, trying to be someone worthy of you. You were all I could think of. I was obsessed. I was living for those evening when I lay down beside you. I wanted to be with you all the time. I still do.’</p><p>‘That doesn’t explain why you did it.’ Gregory blinked and wiped the back of his free hand across his eyes.</p><p>‘I was trying to prove to myself that I could live without you. That my life hadn’t shrunk so much that it was just all about you.’</p><p>Mycroft stroked his thumb across the ba ck of the hand he was holding.</p><p>‘But I was wrong. It’s all about you.’ He swallowed, ‘When I saw you laying there….when I realised that….Gregory….’Mycroft took a breath, his eyes closed tight so he didn’t have to witness his husband’s reaction to his words, ‘If you’d gone. I’d have followed you.’</p><p>At this Gregory pulled his hand free of Mycroft’s hold, and, still staring at the ceiling, he said coldly, ‘I think you should leave now.’</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gregory was asleep when Mycroft visited. Or at least he was doing a good job of pretending to be asleep. He was shivering despite the heat on the ward. Mycroft pulled the blanket up higher over his husband and then sat down on the chair by the bed.</p><p>‘I know you don’t want to talk to me,’ he said after a long moment, ‘ But there are things I need to say to you.’</p><p>He took a deep breath, trying to focus, to frame what he wanted to say.</p><p>‘I am sorry. I’ll never not be sorry for what I did to you. I…I just want another chance. Just once chance. I want to prove to you that I love you. That I’m sorry, and…and I’ll NEVER, never make that mistake again.’</p><p>Mycroft closed his eyes and clenched his jaw in an attempt to stop himself crying. When he opened them again Gregory still hadn’t moved, and his breathing was still slow and even. But Mycroft had slept beside Gregory every night and knew the sound of his breathing when he was asleep. He knew the rhythm of his husbands breath, knew what it felt like against his skin. He knew the drum beat of his heart and he knew every movement Gregory made, from the way he ran his nose across the back of Mycroft’s neck while still asleep, to the rub of his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder. Mycroft had always loved that particular action, the light scratch of Gregory’s stubble against his skin, the smell of the other man as he pressed against him, that musky scent of coffee and wet leaves and soap. Simple scents that he didn’t try to cover with expensive cologne.</p><p>More than one of his colleagues had joked that Gregory was his ‘bit of rough’ and they might have been right in some aspects. Gregory was not soft. He could hold his own in an argument with God himself, he could be prickly, easy to anger, swore too much, smoked too much, drank too much and thought Marks and Spencer was posh.</p><p>But he was kind. He was also angry. He was sarcastic and shouted more than was strictly necessary. But he never once said no when someone asked for his help, he never once went home before the rest of his team did. He volunteered for all the worst cases, those all nighters in the rain on the riverbank trying to gather evidence from a body that had been in the water for a week. When even the forensic team were gagging, he’d stay on and work. He had a sense of responsibility to his job and to other people that at first Mycroft had ridiculed, but very quickly he came to realise what a deep rooted part of Gregory’s entire being it was and he came to respect it. And then he craved it.</p><p>He craved, more than anything else in those early days, Gregory’s approval.</p><p>And he’d gone about it the only way he knew how. He’d taken him to the most exclusive restaurants, his box at the Royal Opera House, opening nights at the National Theatre, given him gifts of watches and expensive cologne….all those things he did in his…courtship of others.</p><p>But Gregory hadn’t wanted any of those things. In fact he’d been wary of them.</p><p>All that Gregory had wanted was to spend time with Mycroft. Just that. Mycroft had never had someone want to spend time with him without the added bonuses that came along with it. But Gregory liked to toe off his shoes and fall asleep on the sofa beside Mycroft, watching an old spy film. He liked to text Mycroft randomly during the day, mostly complaining about the coffee from whatever take out place was closest to that days crime scene. He liked to curl tight around Mycroft after a long, stressful week, exhausted and barely able to stand, yet insistent that he be dropped at Mycroft’s rather than his own flat.</p><p>It was those nights when Mycroft realised that he loved Gregory and that maybe, perhaps, Gregory might have feelings for him. Those nights when Gregory arrived at the door, swaying with exhaustion, his soft brown eyes lined with all the stresses of the day. Those nights Mycroft would steer him towards bed, helping him undress before the policeman fell onto the mattress. When Mycroft lay down beside him, Gregory would immediately seek him out, wrapping his body around Mycrofts, breathing deeply, inhaling his scent as if it was the only thing keeping him alive. And they would lay like that all night, legs tangled together, arms tight around each other.</p><p>They fit together.</p><p>Mycroft had never ’fit’ with anyone before. Logically and statistically he knew that there would be millions of other people who’s body type and size would also align against his to ‘fit’, but Gregory’s was the first, and he wanted him to be the last.</p><p>He knew every inch of Gregory’s body. Knew what every expression meant, every tone, every pause, every sigh.</p><p>And he knew when Gregory was asleep and when he was awake.</p><p>And this is what they had become. Within touching distance in the same room, both pretending that Gregory was asleep.</p><p>Mycroft took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Then he stood up, smoothed the blanket one last time and lifted the water jug.</p><p>‘I’ll get you some more water,’ he said quietly.</p><p>Gregory didn’t respond and Mycroft left.</p><p>#</p><p>As Mycroft’s footsteps retreated, Greg pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders and scrubbed the heel of his palm against his eyes to stop the tears that were already spilling onto the pillow.</p>
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